


If I just lay here

by pleasebekidding



Category: True Blood, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been killed by Damon one time too many, Alaric hits the road. Looking for somewhere he can settle without having to think about vampires any more. Unfortunately for Ric, his car breaks down just outside of Bon Temps.</p><p>“I could dump the car. Buy a bus ticket. Except I can’t dump the fucking piece of shit car. Because it’s the only thing I own and all my stuff’s in it. I can’t stay here.” Rick kicks the tyre but not like he means it. “And I have nowhere to go.”<br/>Sam nods wisely. “Want my opinion?”<br/>Rick offers a strangled laugh. “Why the fuck not?”<br/>“If you’ve got nowhere to go and no way to get there, next best thing seems to me to be to just stay put.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We'll do it all

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo saltzatore and I were up chatting, as we are wont to do, and talking about how people keep expecting Alaric to just say 'la la la I died again, look how well adjusted I am' and we decided Ric needed someone to look after him and be nice for a while. And then my brain went to a Sam/Ric place. Since I was about to do a 42-hour fly/hang out in airports combo, I thought, let's do this. So once again all her fault :)
> 
> Saltzatore also did the amazing artwork.
> 
> THANKS to ellensmithee for the beta!
> 
> Title and Chapter titles are from Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.

 

  


It’s on a run out to Herschelle and back to fetch supplies Lafayette needs for the weekend specials that Sam Merlotte finds the stranger. Further than he’d usually go for supplies but Lafayette is coming off the back end of something ugly that he’d made Sam very clear he didn’t want to talk about and if cooking something a little more complex than gumbo is gonna cheer him up then that’s fine with Sam.

And no bones about it, the man can cook. He’d asked for ingredients Sam can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Truth be known Sam is a little nervous. He’ll eat anything himself, hell, Lafayette made him try offal in an Ethiopian restaurant in New Orleans once a few years back when they were on a week-long LSD bender (the last of Sam’s life, he’d decided at the end) and yeah, as it turned out, not that bad. But the locals can be picky. They like their crumbed, fried crap and burgers the special way Layfayette does them, with paprika charred onto the surface.

 _Let ’em starve_ , he thinks, remembering the smell of the truffle oil.

The stranger isn’t cautious enough, standing there on a blind shoulder. Steam pours out from beneath the hood of his car and his face is wide open and shocked and also way too believing. It looks to Sam like the vehicular catastrophe is an anticipated one and, also, that this is a man who is maybe getting a little too used to catastrophes in general.

Sorta like he was maybe thinking now would be a good time to stop hoping for the best.

Sam pulls over and because he is _not_ the incautious type he sets out a bright orange traffic cone he’s had in his trunk since he took it from a drunk alter boy who was wearing it as a hat a couple weeks back. He was gonna give it to Jason Stackhouse just as soon as he got the chance but guessed it was lucky enough that he hadn’t got around to it because here was a chance to put it to good use.

“Heya, stranger,” he calls. “Looks like you got trouble.”

The man looks up at last. “No,” he answers, shaking his head, “trouble’s got me. By the fucking balls. Again,” and that shouldn’t be the first inkling Sam gets that the man isn’t a local, but it is. The accent and the odd turn of phrase.

Not for the first time Sam finds himself reflecting on the nature of small town Louisiana and the types who call it home. Two kinds of folk living down here in the bayou; those who were born here, and those on the run and with nowhere left to go. That’s the type that end up in small town Louisiana or the empty top end of Alaska and survive there, because they can, and because they are out of more attractive options.

“Sam.” Sam extends a hand and is pleased that the stranger meets his eyes and shakes his hand firmly because he knows city folk can be a little weak and a little shifty, and he wants this man to be neither. “Sam Merlotte. From Bon Temps, a little ways further west.”

“Rick,” the man says. “Someone in Bon Temps got a tow truck you can send back for me?”

“Sure,” Sam says back, “but no need. I can tow you back. Won’t even charge you City Guy tax, and Otis woulda.”

Rick seems surprised but he nods firmly, dark eyes widening suddenly. Looks like this is the best offer he’s had in a while and fuck, maybe it is. He doesn’t look like he’s rolling in good luck or the kindness of strangers. “Appreciate it. Thanks.”

Together they turn Rick’s station wagon around and hook it to the back of Sam’s truck, and they’ll maybe have to drive a little slower than Sam usually likes to but he’s nothing if not curious about his fellow man.

This particular fellow man is an especially interesting specimen. A slow drive back sounds just fine.

Sam prides himself on an ability to read people, even sniff them out a little; no first impression is ever perfect, but Sam’s are usually pretty spot on. But Rick exudes no vibes. On the run, sure, and he’s gonna be out of money soon, and he’s been out of luck a while, but what trouble is he running from? Sam smells no guilt; he’s not in trouble of the sort that can get you picked up by the highway patrol or he wouldn’t have taken the highway. He’s between thirty-five and forty; maybe after some sleep and good food, thirty-five would be a good guess. Strong, but a little thin, right now. He smells faintly of bourbon and the road.

Maybe it’s matters of the heart.

Rick is quiet, watching out the window.

“Rick what?”

“Huh?” Rick turns and Sam finds himself studying his face.

“Is it ‘Rick’ like ‘Madonna’ or you got a last name too?”

“Salt…” Rick coughs on nothing and Sam’s curiosity is piqued again. “-vatore. Salvatore. Sorry.”

Huh. A lie. Still, Sam is a bartender in small town Louisiana and he doesn’t get paid in honesty, just cash. It’s interesting, though. Told the truth about his first name, lied about the last. Rick squints like he wished he didn’t say what he said. Picked the wrong name, maybe.

“You got family in the area?”

This is a question that doesn’t need an answer and Rick answers it by giving Sam an incredulous look.

“Not many reasons people come down here,” Sam admits. He slows his truck to take a tight corner a little wide, allowing for the fishtailing of Rick’s car.

“Tell me, Sam. Do your reasons for arriving in small-town Louisiana get taken down in the town ledger somewhere? Or are they allowed to be your own?”

Rick looks damn near pissed. It’s sorta cute. Sam throws his head back and roars with laughter. “No sir, you get to keep ’em to yourself. But you can’t stop folks from wonderin’. Sorry, man,” he says, reaching to rest his hand briefly on Rick’s shoulder. “Professional hazard.”

Says this last a little stumbly, because Rick pushes his shoulder against the hand like he hasn’t been touched in an age. For a long second Sam thinks Rick might cry, and he prepares mentally to pull up at the next off-ramp rest stop ahead.

Sam’s in no rush. If a man needs a little time to cry, he just needs it, that’s all.

Sam tightens his hand over Rick’s shoulder.

“You okay, man?”

Rick comes back to himself all at once, sitting up straighter. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

 _You look it,_ Sam thinks, but doesn’t say.

**

“I know. Radiator. I’m amazed it got me this far, to tell you the truth.” Rick’s eyes look a little haunted again. “Can you fix it?”

Otis narrows his eyes, spits on the floor, close to Rick’s shoe. “’m I a mechanic, boy? Course I c’n fix it.”

Rick flinches, not at the rust colored phlegm by his toe but at his own rudeness. “I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry. Just. How much will it cost me? How soon could you do it?”

“Gotta get the parts. Be a few days, a week, longer, who c’n tell. Mebbe cost y’ a grand. Mebbe more, mebbe less.”

Rick looks a bit like he got struck by lightening or maybe just God’s finger came right down out of the clouds and squashed him flat. “Right,” he says. “Right.” After a pause, he adds “right.”

“You got a helluva stutter there, boy,” Otis says. “I ain’t got room fer a junker on my lot. I’ll leave word at Merlotte’s when I got yer parts and you c’n bring ’er back.”

Otis turns and hauls his skinny, overalls-clad ass back into his workshop, pausing twice to spit for good measure. Sam chances a hand again. Claps it against Rick’s shoulder.

Rick turns, and his face has clouded now.

“Whadya gonna do?” Sam asks.

Rick looks like he might fall over but he doesn’t, he stands. Keeps standing like it’s not even hard.

“I could dump the car. Buy a bus ticket. Except I can’t dump the fucking piece of shit car. Because it’s the only thing I own and all my stuff’s in it. I can’t stay here.” Rick kicks the tyre but not like he means it. “And I have nowhere to go.”

Sam nods wisely. “Want my opinion?”

Rick offers a strangled laugh. “Why the fuck not?”

“If you’ve got nowhere to go and no way to get there, next best thing seems to me to be to just stay put.”

Rick closes the hood. “You get that shit out of a Christmas cracker?”

“I’m a goddamn genius, Salvatore.” Sam opens Rick’s car door, crosses to his own. “Don’t ever forget it.”

When Rick flinches, Sam promises himself he won’t use the name again.

“You know somewhere I can park the ‘junker’?” Rick asks, resigned. He’s not going anywhere, not in a hurry and Sam’s glad, selfishly glad because Rick has a story Sam wants to hear and lips Sam wants to kiss. Arms he wants to get lost in. Wounds Sam wants to heal.

“Out the back of my place. Merlotte’s. Best bar in the parish probably and the best food by a wide margin, thanks to the culinary genius of my right hand man Lafayette. Parking lot has plenty of room.”

They’ve been silent long minutes, Sam pointing out the occasional land mark (“Church. Graveyard. Church. Graveyard. And – actually, no, I’ll tell you ’bout that when you’ve got a decent meal in you”) and Rick chewing on his bottom lip and mumbling from time to time about how fucked things are.

At last they reach the bar and it’s quiet enough, after the lunch rush, so they dump Rick’s car out in the parking lot and Sam guides him inside. Rick looks around, seems surprised, pleased too, and Sam likes the lazy grin that settles across his features, thinks maybe that’s more the man Rick usually is, when the world isn’t falling around his ears. He grins at the posters on the walls, the selection on the jukebox. “Nice place.”

Rick takes a seat at the bar, a little tentative. Smiles gently at Tara Thornton, who is polishing a glass (or at least going through the motions). “Hello,” he says, nodding, and maybe he’s expecting some small town grace but Tara sneers.

“Whoever the fuck you are,” she answers, and looks away again. Freshly braided corn rows in her hair, ending in long plaits that flip about like snakes as the stalks to the other end of the bar.

“It’s a fuckin’ bar, Tara,” Sam reminds her. “Customers. You’re s’posed to be nice.” He registers a flash of irritation but Tara turns away. He’d fire her, but she has nowhere to go.

He pours Rick a good measure of bourbon – not his cheapest, and a beer to wash it down with. Rick looks a little confused. Cocks his head at Sam and Sam can’t help but think of all the strays Merlotte’s bar has taken in over the years. Rick might be the most appealing of them all.

“’m a bartender, man. If I can’t tell what a man drinks when he needs a drink I’m doing the wrong fucking job.”

Leaving Rick to his thoughts Sam returns to his truck to collect the rest of the supplies for Lafayette. When he reaches the back door Lafayette is leaning against the door jamb, resplendent in bright blue eye shadow that makes his skin look even blacker, false eyelashes and gold lamé and with his lip curled into a fine smirk.

“Mon cher, who is that tall drink of water crying into his bourbon? And can I slice off a piece when you’re done?”

“Leave him alone, Lafayette. He’s in a bad way.” Sam passes Lafayette the grocery bags but Lafayette steps back; carrying groceries might be a little too much like manual labour for him, maybe. “Got yer… stuff.” Sam ignores Lafayette’s delighted grin the way he ignores everything he doesn’t want to know.

“Puppy love. Hmm-hmm.”

Sam puts the bags on the counter and turns to the Princess of Bon Temps. Crosses his arms over his well-muscled chest and tries to pretend Lafayette isn’t loving the whole tableau. “You listen to me, Lafayette. He’s a stranger and he’s in trouble. Don’t know what kind. He’s passin’ through and I won’t stand for you makin’ him uncomfortable with all your little remarks.”

Lafayette grins and swallows whatever comment is curled there on his tongue. Pretends to zip his lip. “I can mind my bidness. But Sam Merlotte… that boy _fine_. If I ain’t gonna get a crack tell me at least you _is_.”

Sam shakes his head, stalks away to the office to check who’s due for the night shift. To count the bottles in the store room and maybe get his head a little clear.

Course, the best way to get his head clear is to be something else for a while, be a dog, go for a run, tear through the forest and through the back yards. Sam doesn’t much like being a bird but sometimes when he is, and when he feels his shoulders stretch so impossibly wide, he wonders why he doesn’t do it more often; problem is the thinking. When a dog thinks he thinks in terms of joy, his favourite person, his favourite tree to piss against, his favourite food. When a bird thinks he thinks in terms of predator and prey, and that doesn’t suit Sam Merlotte.

(It should be said, Sam Merlotte will never be a cat. Not for a single minute.)

There is a bar needs running and a stranger needs feeding and someone has to rewrite the specials board because no one can read Lafayette’s goddamn handwriting, and so running in the forest will have to wait.

When Sam returns to the bar, Rick is gone, and his heart stutters a little.

“Get a fuckin’ grip, Sam, my god.” Tara’s accent is as broad as the Mississippi and about as filthy, too; ‘ _get a ferkin’ grip, Sam, mah gahd_.’ “He went to get some shit out of his car.”

Tara rolls her eyes and pours pitchers of Natty Boh and PBR for the road construction crew that have just waltzed in, Jason Stackhouse strutting and preening at the front. Rick trails in a long beat behind them with a knapsack, returns to his seat at the bar and pulls a road atlas out, notebook and pen.

(Perhaps he’s calculating how far he has to go before he drops off the edge of civilisation altogether. Sam thinks he should offer some help; the edge of Reynard Parish is as far as any man needs to go to never be found again.)

**

Bills and invoices and orders and a thousand other kinds of paperwork. Wistful, Sam remembers when the place was barely making ends meet and he actually got to work behind the bar. It’s been a few hours since he so much as poked his head out.

Tara flies in looking more mussed than usual (and to be fair, ‘usual’ is pretty mussed). “We need you.”

Sam actually feels cheered and the bar, it must be said, is full. Sam immediately jumps behind the taps and starts to serve. Tara is alongside him, swearing and muttering under her breath. “No we don’t have any fuckin’ pinot grigio. What kind of a fuckin’ place you think this is? My god.” Tara turns to Sam, glaring so bad she could light fires. “Sookie has vampire shit goin’ on. For a fuckin’ change. She ain’t comin’ in.”

Fucking Sookie Stackhouse.

“You call anyone?”

“Arlene’s already on her way in. Everyone else said no. Fuck, Sam. You need to hire some fuckin’ staff.”

At the bar, Rick clears his throat. “I can tend bar,” he says, quiet, though his face looks a little stricken and Sam thinks maybe hearing someone has ‘vampire shit going on’ comes as a surprise, maybe a frightening one. Still, help is help. For part of the afternoon Sam had stopped thinking about Rick altogether, and now here he is again; sandy hair and big dark eyes and stubble and the clear need to occupy himself usefully.

“Follow me,” Sam says, hauling Rick back to the office to find him a t-shirt. There’s got to be some way of distinguishing staff from customers and weirdly, a cheerful smile and a desire to please weren’t parts of the uniform Sam could easily convince his staff to wear. Rick’s own t-shirt is a little stained at the armpits and the neckline. A uniform shirt fits the bill.

Sam searches through the drawer where the spare t-shirts are kept until he finds one that might fit. When he looks up, Rick is fantastically shirtless, reaching for the t-shirt in Sam’s hand.

“It might be a little small,” Sam says, helplessly, running his eyes over Rick’s chest and arms, and trying not to wish he’d found one a size smaller.

Rick shrugs, taking the t-shirt and reaching over his head (pulling several sets of muscles into sharp relief and making Sam’s heart do a little backflip), and it is at this moment Sam sees it.

It’s a scar; a series of scars, maybe, layered one over the other; the newest is not yet fully healed, but the oldest are soft white rings and Sam fancies that if he was to reach out and touch it, it would feel like raised ridges of silk against his fingertips.

Vampire bites. Rick’s a fang-banger, but who isn’t, these days? Although, so many scars. He looks like he was maybe kept for a while. His choice or not, anyone’s guess.

Rick notices, hurriedly pulls the t-shirt down to cover his shame as Sam hands him an apron. “Bus the glasses and when you get a second, help out behind the bar. Don’t let Tara upset you. Twelve bucks an hour under the table plus tips.”

Rick averts his eyes, nods briefly. Turns away.

“Rick?” Sam takes another step forward. “Thanks,” he says, touching Rick’s shoulder for the third time in a handful of hours, and wondering how it is possible that it already feels like a habit.

The night stays crazy and Tara is in a worse mood than usual.

“Salvatore,” she calls, three times, and Rick looks up the second time, and around the third time. He’s running the dishwasher and he’s doing fine, now he’s remembering what to do. It was his job in college maybe.

“Salvatore!”

“Yeah. What?” He’s rinsing a cloth under the tap, trying not to meet Tara’s eyes. Sam pours another couple of pitchers, and tells himself he’ll tell her off in a minute, but Tara says what Sam wishes he could:

“When y’all picked y’self a fake fuckin’ name, why’d y’all pick one that A, you don’t respond to and B, freaks the fucking shit right out of you?”

Sam expects an argument. Expects Rick to deny he’d lied about his name.

“Because I’m not good under pressure. Call me Rick. I won’t forget that.” Rick pushes another tray of glasses trough the washer and pauses in front of Tara, expectant. Actual laughter in his eyes.

Sort of impressive, really.

“That bell’s the kitchen. There’s food for table twelve and Lafayette looks fuckin’ pissed. He don’t like his food to get cold no matter how pretty he think you are. So hurry the fuck up, _Rick_.” She slams down a tray of drinks, swears at some regulars and Rick turns on his heel to collect the food.

The bar has been closed a good half-hour when Tara barges into the office. “I’m out,” she says, grabbing her bag. Sweeping out of the office again.

Sam looks up suddenly. “Wait, wait, Tara.” When she turns, irritable, he goes on. “Where’s Rick?”

She shrugs. “Ain’t his girlfriend or his momma. Maybe he left with Lafayette.” It is all she says as she leaves, but her voice is teasing.

 


	2. Show me a garden that's bursting into life

It’s more than an hour past dawn when Sam wakes in the lazy sunlight with the urge to just run. He takes the form of a big dog, shaggy and strong, and slips out of his trailer. Runs through the forest, just runs. Barks because he can and because it feels wonderful. Pisses against all his favourite trees and chases the smell of a rabbit through the underbrush.

Maybe being born a shapeshifter is a curse in some ways but Sam wouldn’t swap it for anything.

In the parking lot of Merlotte’s bar Rick’s useless car sits forlorn. Sam puts his front feet up on the window. He can’t see so with a shake, he shifts again, becomes a wolf, tall enough to see Rick asleep in the back seat, his long form scrunched uncomfortably, a blanket a little too short pulled over himself.

Another shake, and Sam is a dog again. Scratches at the door for reasons that aren’t clear to him beyond the doggish instinct to rouse a human being one is fond of.

Rick opens the back door to find a shaggy white dog sitting with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.

“Hello, dog,” he says, solemn. Reaches out a hand until Sam bounds over, puts his feet on Rick’s legs and shoves his nose in Rick’s face.

Rick laughs, a proper laugh, because he is pleased to have been visited by a dog in the warm morning sunshine. He roughs at Sam’s neck, lets Sam lick his face. “Good dog. Got a name, dog? No collar,” he says, as Sam lays his head on Rick’s knees. “Look like you belong to someone, though. You’re in better condition than I am. At least your fur’s clean. I haven’t had a proper wash in days.”

Inspired, Sam leaps away, looks back. Leaps away again, looking back to make sure Rick knows he’s supposed to be following.

“Okay, dog, I’ll play,” he says, pulling on his shoes, and Sam runs again.

It’s less than ten minutes before Sam and Rick are at the edge of a clear, bright creek. Rick toes his shoes off, pulls his shirt over his head. Smiles broadly at Sam. “You’re a fuckin’ smart dog,” he says. “Seriously. Or else I really stink.”

For decency’s sake Sam doesn’t watch Rick finish stripping down but once he’s dropped his pants on the top of the pile, Sam takes a running jump into the water, landing with a splash moments before Rick does.

They dive beneath the water together and break the surface together and Sam doggy paddles in the most literal sense while Rick does a lazy backstroke, his limbs fluid and languid and his face a lot more peaceful than it had been. Once Rick is clean, he lies on the bank to dry, with Sam curled up at his side.

“So what do you think, dog? It’s not like there’s anywhere else for me to go.” Rick reaches an arm out to scratch Sam behind the ears. “Should I stay for a bit?”

Sam barks, and flips over, sticking his nose into Rick’s neck.

“You’re probably right,” he says with a sigh, letting his eyes drift shut.

**

Before the lunch rush starts, Rick walks into Merlotte’s and slips into the back and Sam doesn’t even know it until he hears a tentative knock on the office door. “Come in,” he calls, and when Rick steps blinkingly inside, Sam nods. “You look to be in a better mood.”

“Had an interesting morning. You know a dog that lives around here? Big shaggy white thing? Doesn’t have a collar.” He looks hopeful and cheered.

(Sam wants to leap up. Tell Rick it was him who Rick swam with, the smart dog. Wants to throw his arms around Rick and make him smile and wishes they could go out there again, right now, run some more. Sam knows, though, that in a world where vampires are suddenly real, most people are not yet ready for the rest of it.)

“Haven’t seen him,” Sam says.

Rick offers his hand for Sam to shake, newly formal, and Sam fights the urge to give him a course in Southern etiquette but instead, he shakes.

“Alaric Saltzman,” he says. “Ric.”

Ah. There it is.

“Ric.” Sam nods, shaking. “I’m still just Sam Merlotte.”

“Do you need me today?” Alaric makes an odd, apologetic look. “It’d be good to have something to do.”

Sam nods. “Tonight, sure. Today, not so much. Look, you got laundry…? I got a machine, not for nothin’.”

“I really don’t want to impose…”

“It ain’t an imposition, Ric. Just use the fuckin’ machine, for fuck’s sake,” Sam says, “And the dryer too. It’s so humid out here nothing ever dries without it. See you at five.” He hands Alaric the key to his trailer and the laundry room and Sam’s own heart and Alaric takes it, nodding and feeling foolish. Sam calls him back a moment.

“I got a good ear, Ric,” he says. “If you need one.”

Alaric smiles brightly but fails to look any less miserable. “Nope,” he insists. “I’m good.”

“Yeah, you’re just fine,” Sam tells the door as it closes with a soft click.

**

On the third night, as Alaric slips out of the closed bar, Sam calls him back. “Have a drink with me,” he says, figuring Alaric doesn’t seem like the kind of man who turns down a drink too often. He nods, grabbing a seat at the bar while Sam pours beers and puts a bottle of bourbon on the bar between them, two tumblers.

“To the South,” Sam says as their glasses click together. Rick throws eyebrows north but repeats the cheer.

Sam clears his throat. “You gonna tell me yet what’s brung you out here?”

Alaric shakes his head. “You ready to kill yourself laughing?”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Sam says, pouring bourbon. “Try me.”

Alaric takes a tentative mouthful of bourbon, and then a second, less tentative, more fortifying. “I’m trying to leave vampire trouble in my rear view mirror,” he admits at last.

Sam laughs but not enough to die from, and he pours Alaric another drink. “Well you came to the wrong fucking town for that.” Even as he says it he pictures the scars low on Alaric’s hip and wonders what kind of trouble; the kind that gets you held down and drunk from or the kind that has you serving yourself up on a platter.

“I didn’t know it was like this down here. I came from Vir-Virginia, and they’re still tryin’ to stay under the radar there.” Interesting; for a moment he’d considered lying about where he was from, too. “Think I’ll try Maine next.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“It’s a long story.”

“This is Louisiana,” Sam says. “Long as it’s a good one, we love a long story.”

Alaric shakes his head. “Really. Went looking for a vampire – one I planned to kill – and got a whole lot more than I bargained for.”

It’s all he’s going to get for just now so Sam pours more drinks and talks about life in Bon Temps now that the vampires are strutting around like Mary Magdalene on a Saturday night. They’re both tipsy and yawning when Alaric stands reluctantly and takes a step away from the bar.

“I gotta go, Sam,” Alaric admits. “Need to get some sleep. Five tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Monday and the bar’s quiet. Not even I work Monday.”

That takes the wind right out of Alaric’s sails. “Guess I’ll find something to do.” He smiles a little and gives a sharp, manic nod, before stepping away.

“Ric. Wait.”

Alaric turns and waits, cautious.

“I got a couch. Not for nothin’,” he says. “It’s not bad to sleep on. Done it myself more’n once.”

“I don’t wanna impose,” Alaric answers, taking a reluctant step away.

“What the fuck happened to you, that you can’t let someone show you the least bit of kindness?”

The words tumble from Sam’s mouth before he has time to shape them, and they sound harsher than he means them to. For a moment, he feels afraid; Alaric might get angry, storm out, argue. Dump the station wagon and run, buy a bus ticket.

Instead, he slumps. Rubs at his temples.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

Sam nods. “Start by kipping the night on my goddamn couch. Chill out tomorrow, watch some fucking TV. Read a book, you look like a reader.” Sam stands, crosses slowly to where Alaric stands. “You hit the road however many days ago and now you land here, take up a bartending job just like that. Slow. The fuck. Down.”

Alaric studies his toes for a long moment and nods, at last. “Yeah. You might have a point.” He meets Sam’s eyes. “Thanks.”

Sam resists drawing Alaric in for a hug, but feels a strange stirring. From the look on Alaric’s face, it’s not out of the question. Good enough for now.

The couch isn’t quite long enough for Alaric’s lanky frame but it’s a lot more spacious than the back seat of a car so while Alaric collects a few things from his car, Sam collects a sheet and a light blanket, some pillows. Nothing much to look at but it’s likely to be the best night’s sleep Alaric has had in some small while, now.

Hilariously, Alaric knocks. Sam shakes his head with his lip curled to incredulous. “’s open,” he calls, pulling a pillowcase over a pillow.

It takes Sam thirty seconds to give Alaric the grand tour. “I got errands to run in the mornin’,” he says, “and I’ll likely be gone when you get up. But you’re welcome to anything in the fridge and you go ahead and take a hot shower.”

Alaric nods.

Sam turns to his bedroom. “Sam?” Alaric calls back, unsteady again. “You don’t know me from Adam, man.”

“Adam? Naked guy with a fig leaf over his family allowance? Reckon I could tell you apart. You’re kinda stubbly.” Sam smiles in a way he hopes is friendly, but not suspect.

“You know what I mean. Why would you help me?”

Sam pauses and banishes the thought of putting his arms around Alaric; he’d feel like an asshole, now, so he shrugs. “I’ve always taken in strays,” he says at last. “No hardship.”

He nods again and pulls the bedroom door shut behind him.

**

In the morning Alaric is awake and stretched out on the couch in nothing but his boxers, enjoying the way the sunshine plays over his skin. He nods at Sam, smile bright. Lighter than he was yesterday, maybe.

Sam tries hard not to look at the way Alaric’s muscles are emphasised when he stretches to yawn, Alaric’s irritation when he scratches his chin. He needs a shave, maybe, but Sam likes the stubble.

All languid arms and legs, Alaric rises to his feet. “You sure you don’t know a great big white dog around here? He’d be hard to miss.” Alaric’s accent is clean, educated. Sam likes it and he likes Alaric asking after the dog too so his heart stutters a little.

“No. Why?”

Alaric shrugs, taking the electric kettle to fill. “No real reason. We’ve gone down to the creek out there together the last couple of mornings. Nice dog.”

“I’ll be sure and keep an eye out,” Sam promises. After a cup of coffee and a bite of toast Sam excuses himself to run his errands.

He gets no further than quarter mile up the road before he pulls over to think.

“Fuck it,” he whispers under his breath. He strips off his clothes and tucks them under the front seat, buries his keys beneath a small cairn he’ll easily recognise when it’s time to come back and then with a shake, the big white shaggy dog exists again, running back to Alaric’s side.

“There you are, dog,” Alaric says on Sam’s porch minutes later, roughing at his neck, letting Sam stick his nose into the crook of his neck. “Coming out to the creek? Knew you’d come back. Why doesn’t Sam know you, eh?” Alaric ties his sneakers up while Sam prances, impatient. Sam runs ahead, doubles back frequently, chasing rabbits and the occasional lizard until they finally make it to the water.

Alaric strips to his boxers and they jump into the water together, splashing around. After a time Alaric crawls back up onto the bank, and is silent a long time. Sam curls up against his side, puts his head up on Alaric’s thigh. His doggy mind can only really process _favourite person_ , and seek to banish the lingering sadness on Alaric’s face.

“I’m a total fuckup, dog,” he says, scratching Sam’s head. “You know that?”

Sam barks in protest but the problem with barking is it all sounds pretty much the same; protest, agreement, rabbit, vampire.

Alaric lets his eyes drift closed and dozes for long moments. At last, Sam licks his face, rousing him, running in doggie circles and then away.

Dressed and sitting in the car, Sam spends long moments thinking, because Alaric is clearly a man who needs to talk and can’t. There’s no one so gone you can’t get through to them and Sam is patient but right now, goddamnit, he doesn’t want to be patient; wants to cajole the story out of Alaric and if that doesn’t work, he wants to kiss Alaric from head to toe until he’s so relaxed and happy the story comes pouring from him.

Sam’s erection is physically painful by the time he notices it. “Go away,” he says firmly to his crotch, pointing like a schoolmarm. “I mean it.”

Since this doesn’t work Sam jerks off behind a tree, and then heads out to complete his errands.

**

By the time Sam arrives home it is early afternoon. He has a trunk full of food for his own use and better beer than Merlotte’s sells and without a word, Alaric stands from where he was resting on a patio chair with a book to help him carry it all inside.

“Having some folk around for a few drinks and a barbecue,” Sam says by way of explanation as Alaric eyes the meats, the fresh vegetables.

“Just tell me what to do,” Alaric says, nodding. “I’ve been feeling a bit useless all day.”

In silent companionship they prepare food, Alaric chopping garlic and fresh herbs impossibly fine to marinate the meats.

“You’re not from Virginia,” Sam says, and Alaric looks up with something like annoyance on his face; “maybe you came from there this week, but you weren’t brung up there.”

Alaric nods. “Born and raised in Boston. A long stint at Du- a long stint in Durham.”

“College boy,” Sam says, but without the judgment in his tone that many from Bon Temps would carry. “What kinda work you do?”

Alaric shifts uncomfortably, and doesn’t answer.

“You like being mysterious, huh?” Sam rinses vegetables under the sink.

When Alaric starts to speak it comes out in a tumble; “I was an academic at Duke. Civil War History. ’swhere I met my wife, Isobel. But the last few years I’ve been a high school history teacher, in Virginia. I know,” he says, “not a traditional career path. It wasn’t exactly planned.”

Sam dries capsicums and bright red tomatoes on a tea towel printed with a terrible gumbo recipe. “Your wife?”

“Dead,” Alaric says, and his tone betrays little. “She left me to become a vampire.”

Sam stops in his tracks but Alaric slices ginger into tiny threads.

“That’s what you’re runnin’ from? Your wife…?”

“No. A couple of years ago, she killed herself. Guess it wasn’t all she’d hoped for.” Alaric laughs and there is no joy in it. He won’t meet Sam’s eyes. “I went looking for her killer, back when I thought she was dead-dead.”

“You find ‘im?”

“Yeah.” The urge to poke and prod and demand answers is strong but Sam won’t push because this is good progress for now and he doesn’t want Alaric to start sleeping in his car again.

Sam tries for a change in subject. “Quite a ring you got there, Ric,” he says, nodding at Alaric’s right hand.

“I hate the fucking thing,” Alaric answers, with a tone so vicious his lip twists in the telling of it.

Sam cracks open a couple of beers he takes from the fridge – a thank you and an apology in one – and he passes one into Alaric’s waiting hand.

“Skeleton staff in the bar tonight, and everyone else is coming here.”

“Can’t wait to see what Tara’s like without that sheen of professionalism.” The comment makes Sam laugh out loud which, in turn, makes Alaric grin. It’s a good grin.

People start to drift in about six o’clock, when the edge comes off the heat and the mosquitoes come out. Arlene with a nervous looking Terry Bellefleur and her two eldest, smiling children though the baby must be with a sitter. Lisa shakes hands with Alaric and says with a cheerful air, “Mommy’s ol’ boyfriend wuz a serial killer, but we wuzn’t askairt.” Coby nods his agreement.

Arlene leads them away with a series of muffled admonishments and Sam turns to explain to Alaric but Alaric looks unfazed, drinking deep from his bottle. Sam shakes it off and turns the sausages. Lamb and rosemary with a little apple. Beef and thyme. Lafayette’s preferred butcher was a genius for sausages.

Sam barely has time to turn before Sookie Stackhouse leans to kiss him on the cheek. “Sam,” she sings. “I have had the week to end all weeks.” All dramatic declaration, as things always are with Sookie.

Sam says a little louder than necessity demands or courtesy allows, “you brought the bloodsuckers?” He fully expected she would but he has to make the observation anyway. The bloodsuckers in question stand a little straighter.

Alaric tenses, but doesn’t look up.

“Don’t be a beast,” Sookie insists. “This whole polya- polio-” She takes a deep breath. “This thing with me and the boys is working out just _splendid_.” The thought of Sookie sharing Adele Stackhouse’s cottage with a pair of leeches makes Sam want to break something. “But I have had a _week_. Sorry I didn’t make it into work.”

“Yeah? Meet your replacement. Ric.”

“Ric.” Sookie takes his hand almost delicately, curtsies. Not worried at all about her job security. “Pleased to meet you, sure I am. So cute Sam throwin’ a party to show off his new friend! These are my lovers, Bill and Eric.” She doesn’t see what Sam sees, the flicker of acknowledgment that passes between Alaric and Bill and Eric; a test and a challenge and a ‘do not fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you.’ These days Sam hates them less but not much less and it irritates him beyond the telling of it that any invitation extended to Sookie is automatically presumed to include spooky, dark haired Bill and hulking blond giant Eric. For a moment alarm sends his eyes seeking Alaric’s; is he craving the bites?

No. He’s not. Alaric turns his back on the vampires and gives Sookie a terse nod as he pulls his hand away. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town,” he says. “Can’t impose on Sam forever.”

“Keep telling you it’s not an imposition.”

“I’m sure he’s glad for the company.” Sookie beams, and Alaric seems irritated. Nods and turns back to the meat.

Sam nudges Alaric’s arm once they’re alone again, Sookie flitting between Bill and Eric, both of whom are stealing small glances at Alaric; “you okay?”

“She reminds me of someone,” Alaric answers. “A couple of someones, rolled into one. If I trip and call her Caroline or Elena, you know why. And she’s…” Alaric shakes his head. “No, you know what? I don’t wanna know. I’m in no position to judge.”

Unbidden the image of the ghosted rings pops into Sam’s mind and he glances at Alaric’s hip, as if he could see through the faded maroon t-shirt. Alaric blushes slightly as if he can see into Sam’s mind, and he runs a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture Sam’s seen just about a thousand times now. Equally unconscious, his hand hovers momentarily over the scar as he takes another long sip of his beer.

“You were kept fer a time?”

Sam doesn’t mean to ask so boldly.

Alaric winces. Whether he’s familiar with the term or not it paints an ugly picture, but he stoops his head, turns toward the tree line and gives a half-nod, half-shake. “Something like that.”

Sam watches Alaric as the night goes on; speaking in quiet, compassionate tones with Terry about his time in Iraq, inspecting Arlene’s kids’ treasures one by one, laughing with Lafayette (unfazed by Lafayette’s frank overtures, even. When Lafayette puts his hand on Alaric’s chest and purrs “mon cher, you are about the most fuckable thing I ever _seen_ ” Alaric laughs, and asks if it’s a line that ever works. Nonplussed, Lafayette says “mostly I find I don’t have to try too hard.”), even holding his own with Tara. As Sookie tries to make small talk with Sam, Sam watches Alaric.

“I think it’s nice, that you’re gettin’ a little experimental again, Sam Merlotte,” Sookie declares, like she has a say; “I worried for a while you weren’t never gonna move on from me. He seems very sweet, though a touch prejudiced.”

“Prejudiced?”

“Well he don’t like vampires, that’s fer dang sure.”

“Given that they eat people, that seems like self-preservation more’n prejudice, Sookie Stackhouse, and I’ll thank you to mind your business. He’s a friend and he’s stayin’ here and he’s covering a few shifts at the bar until his car gets fixed.”

“Still.” Sookie cocks her head, her chin dimpling in the way Sam used to dream about, but doesn’t any more; “I like him.”

The gossips in Bon Temps whisper about Sookie and even when they don’t, she hears their judgments in the things they think; and it makes Sam wonder what, exactly, Alaric is running from; someone after him? Local gossip? Something worse? It occurs to him that Sookie maybe knows more, and he has half a mind to ask, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t seem fair, when Sookie can read any human mind but can’t read Sam’s to ask her to violate Alaric’s, when he plain wants some privacy.

Sookie gives Sam a look like she’s daring him to ask.

Sam passes her a plate and she drifts away, towards her lovers, who are sipping on True Blood like it could convince anyone at all they’re not drinking from Sookie. Sookie has more neck scarves and kerchiefs than every other woman in Bon Temps combined.

And then the night is drawing to a close, and people drift off, family units of every conceivable size and shape, and the bar is closed, too; and finally it’s Sam and Alaric, collecting paper plates and filling a garbage bin with empty bottles. Alaric is collecting scraps of meat into a bowl.

“Bin it all. We ain’t big on compost, here,” Sam says, taking the bowl.

“It’s for the dog,” Alaric answers, a little sheepish. “He came back this morning after you left.” Sam relinquishes the bowl with a dizzying rush of affection, and he nods.

 


	3. Let's waste time, chasing cars

Wednesday, Otis drops into the bar. “Got yer parts,” he says. “Drop yer car ’round when you can. Couple days, then.”

Alaric nods, and Sam’s heart drops twelve inches into his stomach. When Alaric turns, the question unasked, curled right there on his tongue, Sam doesn’t want him to ask it, so he offers, instead.

“Tomorrow, before the bar opens. We’ll drop it ’round.” Alaric nods, and doesn’t look that happy, and Sam shouldn’t smile at that; but he does.

Thursday Sam doesn’t even need Alaric, has enough staff, and even Sookie turns up. But he asks him to work anyway, and Lafayette sets him to work in the kitchen. Lafayette corners Sam in the office after the dinner rush has ended and crosses his arms over the pink mesh shirt he’s barely wearing.

“Sam Merlotte. Even _I_ got blue balls, lookin’ at you two dance around each other.” He swings one hip out. “That fine boy still sleepin’ on the sofa? Cause if he is, you dumber than Arlene’s hairbrush.”

“I heard that,” she twangs, sticking a third pen into her ponytail. “Just ’cause y’all are the way y’all are, don’t mean you cain’t be _nice_.” She puts her hands on her hips. “If I can work with y’all – no offense – you can go on and stop calling me dumb. But Sam,” and then she’s all sweet southern smile again, “he may just have a point. Life’s too short, unless y’all are a vampire. Oh…” she covers her mouth with her hand. “Ric’s not a vampire, is he?”

“You seen him drinkin’ True Blood? Bitch, yo givin’ yo hairbrush a run for it’s money.” Lafayette turns a theatrical finger in the air, and Sam debates nicknaming his stress headache after the two of them. Arfayette. Lafaylene.

“Hey.” Alaric sticks his head into the office. “It’s quiet. I should go. What?” He looks worried, at Arlene’s bright, false smile, at Lafayette’s knowing smirk, at Sam’s tired expression. “Everything okay?”

Sam nods helplessly, because there is nothing else he can do. “Yeah. See you later.”

Alaric nods, caution still dancing across his features like a ghost, and he pulls the door shut with a click. Lafayette and Arlene round on Sam immediately.

“Go! We can close up,” Arlene says. “Go do… whatever it is y’all do. Oh, Sam, you won’t tell us about it, will you?” She looks anguished.

Sam covers his face with his hands.

“Go.” Lafayette points.

“Who’s the boss around here?” Sam is irritated now. They’re in his face. “Git back to work, the pair a you, or your jobs’ll be in the paper Saturday. My sex life is not your concern. Now. Fuck off.”

And Arlene saunters out, and Lafayette struts out, but what matters is they go.

It’s a quietish night, and Sam locks the front door around one in the morning and he makes his way back to his trailer, where Alaric is shirtless and a little drunk on the couch. The shirtlessness is both a problem and a treat. Sam bites back a little groan, but only for the moment it takes to see Alaric’s face, because he looks miserable.

Last couple of days, even with the threat of a working car looming over him, Alaric has looked like he might have found some measure of peace. It’s gone now.

“Ric?”

Alaric looks up.

“What happened, man? You alright?”

Alaric laughs softly and there’s less humour in it than you’d find at a Methodist prayer meeting.

“So it turns out, my phone’s mail box only fits one hundred messages. You want to know how I know that?”

Sam reaches into the cabinet above the small oven and pulls down a bottle of Bushmill’s Malt. Nice. Grabs a pair of jelly jars and pours them each a generous slug. “I can guess. You know how many text messages?”

“At least a hundred and seventy-one.”

“You listen to the messages?”

“The first few. Variations on a theme. Deleted the rest. I’ll read the texts, maybe. When I can bear to.”

Sam passes Alaric a drink and settles alongside him on the couch, maybe a little closer than propriety actually allows but damned if Sam isn’t hoping they’ll bump, maybe, that gravity will do the job he can’t do himself, let him reach all the way across the solar system and hold Alaric ’til the sun comes up.

Alaric can’t speak, so Sam does instead.

“I saw your scars,” he says unnecessarily. “I mean. I c’n see ’em now, too.”

Alaric nods. “Yeah. Whaddya think, I should get a tattoo over it? What is it you call people like me down here? Fangbangers?”

Sam wants to protest and say he’s never used the term himself but knows it would sound like the lie it is. So.

“Tell me about… Him, her?” Sam’s heart flips over, and he takes a step closer. “Your vampire…?”

“Want the truth?”

“If it’s alright by you.”

“I loved him.” Alaric nods, an odd, manic nod. “I did. But they’re not like us. People get hurt. And I don’t mean broken hearts or wounded feelings. I mean I loved Damon and he still killed me four times. Last time was the last time. I left.”

Sam recoils because none of this makes sense. “But he didn’t turn -”

Alaric shook his head, showed off his ring, big ugly thing Sam had wondered about more than once. “Protects against supernatural death. Which is great. I’ve died more times than I care to count. But Damon… It was like he thought it didn’t matter, because I’d wake up in a few hours. So if he was in a bad mood or I told him something he didn’t want to hear he’d lose his temper, break my neck. Blowing off steam.”

Alaric shrugs.

This isn’t something you should be able to shrug about.

The phone rings, and a face appears on the small screen; an aquiline face, the palest eyes Sam has ever seen, inky black hair. A name, Damon Salvatore.

Alaric switches the phone off. Drains his glass, and then a second time, when Sam refills it.

“I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going.” Now that Alaric has started, he can’t stop. The words pour from him. “There are these kids I’ve been watching out for… I mean, they’re in college. They won’t even know I’m gone, yet, unless Damon’s called them looking for me. Still. I walked out on my job, broke my lease. Called the Sheriff, but only so no one would start a search party. I just… left,” he says and starts to run out of steam. “Who does that?” At this, he turns and meets Sam’s eyes, like he really wants an answer.

Sam has no answer but this one: “Maybe a man who got killed one too many times by a man he should’ve been able to trust.”

Alaric lets his eyes flutter closed, and Sam can’t help but feel what he’s feeling. So he lets his fingers tangle into Alaric’s. Alaric closes his hand over Sam’s and when he opens his eyes they are a little red.

“You know I’m completely fucked up, right?” Says it like a disclaimer.

“Well, ‘completely’ might be oversellin’ it a little,” Sam answers, heart beat rising by the second. He turns a little and meets Alaric’s eyes.

Alaric’s eyes drifts to Sam’s lips and Sam feels them fill and swell, just a touch.

Alaric shakes his head. Not a no: he’s clearing cobwebs, maybe, and he drains his glass again.

“I need some sleep,” he says.

Sam nods. Stands flustered as a belle and returns the bottle to the cabinet. Closes his bedroom door without another word and jerks off with his t-shirt packed into his mouth so he can’t alert Alaric to what he’s doing.

**

Saturday Sam slips out of the house early, shifts, comes back; does this to see the smile on Alaric’s face, the joy of it.

Alaric smiles wide, but incredulous. “You always just miss Sam, dog. How do you do that?” He pulls his shoes on, stands. “C’mon. Let’s go for a swim.”

And the morning is warm, and Sam’s doggy mind bounces from ‘favourite person’ to ‘favourite tree’ to ‘favourite thing to chase’ and he sits on a rock by the water waiting for Alaric to strip down and together they jump into the clean water, climb out, jump again. And Alaric laughs, and the sound is like medicine. And Sam’s human mind, just below the surface, longs to shift back, just admit what he’s been hiding; and other part knows Alaric might run if he does. So he lets his doggy mind do the thinking, _favourite person, favourite person_ , like a drum beat.

And Alaric steps out of the shower, an hour or so later, to find Sam in the kitchen making coffee, and even exasperated he sounds happy; “Agh! How do you do that?”

“Well, you put the coffee in the saucepan…”

“I went for a swim with my dog friend. And you missed him. Again.” Alaric’s smile is bright as the sun, and Sam doesn’t want to tell what he knows but he will.

“Found that,” he says, and it’s a note: it reads ‘CAR DONE FIXED.’ “It was under the door when I got back. Otis ain’t the literary type.”

Alaric’s face falls. “This is… great news.”

Sam nods. “We’ll go pick it up.”

Their eyes never meet. And when Sam pulls up outside Otis’ shop, Alaric doesn’t get out of the car, not all at once. He stares straight ahead.

“This doesn’t mean…”

“Oh, I know. Still, good to have your wheels.”

Alaric is silent long moments still and when he speaks, he holds Sam’s blue eyes in his dark grey-brown ones. “I don’t think…” He’s nervous. “I’m not going, yet, I don’t think. If that’s okay.”

“’Course.” Sam does and doesn’t want to say, _stay as long as you like, stay forever_ , but maybe the tension in his arms tells it in a way he can’t. Alaric collects his car and they drive in file back to Merlotte’s, park side by side in the shady part of the lot.

And then later they set up the bar, silent together, and Alaric polishes glasses, rolls cutlery, and they’re silent but nearby, and their eyes never meet; because the car in the parking lot can take Alaric away, now, and it is too sad for words.

And later still, they head back to the trailer.

Once they are inside, Sam feels a heavy hand settle at the base of his spine, just above his jeans. Feels the thumb slip cautiously above it. Feels Alaric’s lips at the back of his neck.

Sam shivers.

“Thanks for helping me out, Sam,” Alaric whispers, and Sam pulls away a notch.

“You don’t owe me shit, Ric,” he says, a little disappointed, until Alaric takes his wrist.

“I know. I don’t. But I like you,” he says like he wasn’t expecting to, like the words are saying themselves. “I might be a little rusty when it comes to reading signals, or sending ’em. I’m sorta used to being thrown up against walls and dragged to bed. No ambiguity.”

The words sting (what has Alaric been living with?) but Sam is too turned on to be distracted now. “I can be blunt,” Sam promises, curling his hand around the back of Alaric’s neck and pulling him in; when their lips meet it is impossibly soft, for a moment, and then Alaric meets Sam’s eyes, opens his mouth, deepens their kiss. Stubble meets stubble in rough urgency. Alaric draws Sam closer and then shifts his hands to hold Sam’s face; Sam in turn tangles his fingers in Alaric’s hair, spreads his hand across Alaric’s lower back. Up under his t-shirt, over the rich muscles that ripple there.

Alaric pulls away, just a notch.

“Are you in a hurry?”

Sam blinks.

Alaric leans until their foreheads touch. Runs his hands over Sam’s ribs, over his hips. Like he wants to learn him before he unwraps him.

Sam leans to kiss Alaric again, again, and it’s a little like getting drunk, maybe, when Alaric kisses back, strains forward. Too soon, though, he leans back and away. He breathes for long moments, holding Sam’s gaze, and then he opens his mouth to speak, and then he closes it again.

“Talk to me, Ric. I ain’t Sookie, can’t hear what you’re thinkin’.” Alaric snaps his eyes to Sam’s. “It’s a fairy thing. Don’t worry about it.”

Alaric considers this, nods. Moves on like fairies are just another one of those things.

“I woke up in Damon’s bed three weeks ago after he killed me for what I swore would be the last time. And I got in my car. And I hit the road.” He shakes his head, but one of his hands wraps Sam’s wrist and the other skates over his ribs. “I really am a total mess,” he says again.

Sam shrugs. “I like a man who’s a little unhinged.” He nudges Alaric’s nose with his own. “So when you’re ready, let’s see if we can fuck some peace back into you.”

Alaric laughs. “Blunt,” he says.

“Come to bed, Ric,” Sam says. “Can’t be comfortable on the sofa night after night.”

Alaric nods, and soon they are naked and stretched out, faces close enough to kiss, bodies angled a little further away. Sam takes Alaric’s hand, studies the ring in the bright light of the moon.

“Will the ring work forever?” He wants to know, and he doesn’t.

Alaric lowers his eyes, impossibly long eyelashes fluttering away and then up again as he meets Sam’s eye. “I have no idea. Thought I’d find somewhere to live where I’m less likely to die, try to never find out.”

Sam closes the distance between them, all talk of waiting forgotten, and holds Alaric tight. “Stay here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Stay here and let’s never find out together.” He kisses Alaric’s face, his mouth, until the tentative mood is gone; until Alaric is holding him tight too, kissing him back, kissing him hard, firm and determined.

“I might,” Alaric says. “Like you said. If you’ve got nowhere to go. Maybe a reason to stay.” He pulls away, just a notch. “But I can’t do this tonight. I can sleep on the couch, if it’s easier.”

“No. Stay put.” Sam pulls away, settles a cushion under his head. “I gotta head out early. You tell that furry friend of yours I said hello,” he says, and smiling, closes his eyes.

After a long beat, Alaric settles, too.

“G’night, Sam.”

“G’night, Ric.”

**

“So whaddya think, dog?” Alaric asks, lying on the bank alongside the sparkling creek. “Can’t think of any good reason to leave, except the… overblown vamp population. I can think of a couple good reasons to stay.”

Sam wonders if Alaric knows his accent is shifting, subtly.

“You’d like Sam,” he says, scratching Sam’s doggy head, and Sam pants happily. “I should tie you up some time. Make sure you’re around when he gets home.”

Sam looks up, alarmed; and Alaric laughs, and his expression is so easy. “I wouldn’t. You don’t look like you’d be very happy with me.” He stands reluctantly to dress. “I’m gonna rotate the kegs while Sam’s out runnin’ errands. See you when I see you.” He kneels, roughs Sam’s neck, and walks away down the path, while Sam bounds away, back to the car.

And then suddenly it’s Monday night again, and quiet, and Sam and Alaric eat burgers a la Lafayette and drink with regulars and try not to touch each other. Until Arlene takes Sam aside and points at the door.

“Will you just go? Y’all are makin’ the straight folk uncomfortable.”

And they go back to the trailer without a word. Shut the door, without a word, and begin to tear at each other’s clothes, without a word.

Sam steps Alaric towards the bedroom; a little cautious, trying not to let Alaric think of Damon. Not too cautious, though, he wants this more than he knew he did, swallows the moans Alaric makes in his throat.

“Are you ready?” Sam asks, speaks the words right into Alaric’s mouth, follows them with his tongue.

“Fuck, yes,” Alaric answers, putting his big hands all over Sam, touching him everywhere, learning him again. Rougher than Sam expected.

It has been way the fuck too long.

On the bed at last, the too-small bed that holds them cramped at night, Sam eases Alaric out of his jeans, kissing his chest, licking circles around his nipples. He pauses at the scar and after a long moment, kisses it too; time to make new memories, he thinks, and he won’t pretend he can rewrite Alaric’s history.

Alaric smiles fondly.

Sam licks a careful stripe up the length of Alaric’s dick, pausing to kiss circles around the tip, and finally taking it whole in his mouth, while Alaric rolls his hips and reaches for Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s not sure who is the more relieved, but Alaric makes hot little sounds Sam can’t describe and Sam imagines that with his tongue and his mouth and his hands he can clear away the dark clouds, bring some spring rain.

And then a little later, with Alaric buried in him, with Alaric’s lips at the back of his neck, with Alaric’s hand on his aching dick, with Alaric’s other arm over his shoulder, moulded together, Sam thinks they were made to fit each other’s bones, just like this; and they come nearly exactly together, and when they do, Alaric is whispering Sam’s name like a prayer.

In the early morning light, Alaric kneels between Sam’s thighs, wakes him with his mouth, his tongue. Holds Sam’s bucking hips and smiles obscenely around the shaft.

“Jesus, Christ, Ric,” Sam mutters, fingers tangled in Alaric’s hair, anchoring him in place, and Alaric takes him halfway down his throat, swallows the ropy jets of come like communion wine.

They’re lazy, there, a little while, until Alaric suggests a swim, to clean up. “Nicer than a shower, and more room,” he says. “Maybe dog will join us.”

“You really callin’ him dog?” Sam asks, and Alaric shrugs.

“Only really matters that _he_ knows who he is. Dog suits him.”

**

They’re maybe two minutes and change from the creek when Sam makes his decision. As he and Alaric strip down, Alaric watches for any sign of the dog, and seems disappointed when he doesn’t materialise.

“Pity,” he says.

Sam winces because he’s decided, but he doesn’t know yet whether it means this is the last he’ll see of Alaric.

“You like him, eh? Better swimming companion that me?” Sam’s smile is maybe a little forced.

“Yeah. But he can’t make coffee.” Alaric grins, eyes narrowing in the warm sun.

Sam shifts.

Alaric freezes.

Sam sits down, cautious and patient like he knows he has to be. Pants a little. His doggy mind wavers between ‘favourite person’ and ‘behave’. He wriggles a little, tail wagging.

Alaric drops to his knees. “Sam?”

Sam nods, reaches a paw out to shake. After a moment’s hesitation, Alaric shakes it. He looks a little sad, maybe, but dogs like their favourite people deliriously happy and it’s hard to distinguish, sometimes, sad from ‘not happy enough for one of my favourite people’. Alaric reaches out, roughs Sam’s fur.

Alaric stands. “We came for a swim, right?”

Sam stands expectantly, prances in place, tail wagging frantically, and they leap into the water. Dive below it, chase each other. Eventually, treading water, Alaric says simply, quietly “change back,” and Sam does it.

“Guess I know why you two were never in the same place at the same time,” Alaric says. Quiet still.

“Guess you do at that.” They drift to where it’s shallower, stand with their heads just barely above the waterline, toes in the cool mud at the bottom.

“Is it… are you like a werewolf?”

Sam smiles. “Naw. Shapeshifter. I can be justabout any animal, long as I c’n picture it clear enough.” Alaric takes it in.

“Is it an infection? Like vampirism?”

Sam drifts closer, wraps his arms around Alaric. “Family thing.” The way he holds him, it like a test. To see if Alaric will push him away. Alaric doesn’t, runs his hands over Sam’s ribs instead.

“But you don’t drink blood or, fuck, I dunno, eat babies? Kill virgins under a full moon?”

Their lips are close enough to touch.

“Naw. Catch a rabbit every once in a while, cook it up. You ever eaten rabbit?”

Alaric laughs. “Can’t say I have.” Their bodies meet from knee to lip.

“Well…” and they kiss, then, a long moment. “Maybe that’s another reason to stay.”

Cocks stirring in close proximity, they kiss again, and Alaric nods. “Maybe. Maybe it is.”

 


	4. Would you lie with me, and just forget the world?

It’s been less than a month, and Alaric’s car has run errands into Herschelle and around Bon Temps but he hasn’t driven more than sixty miles in any direction, and he comes back each time, parks alongside Sam’s truck. They work hard and they drink hard, too, and they fuck like teenagers. And if Alaric is still ‘that one working at Merlotte’s, from away’ and ‘Merlotte’s new boy-toy, and Christ, neither of ’em a been seen in church, _either_ church, though the Lord don’t take that type and everyone knows it’, well, neither he nor Sam care much.

Alaric hasn’t done such physical work in a long time and Sam loves to spend hours working the soreness from his body with hands and lips and tongue, loves it when Alaric does the same; they rarely sleep late because with a few hours free in the morning, they go for a swim, instead, and when Sam is a dog Alaric still calls him ‘dog’.

Alaric sits down one day with a brand new phone and calls his people. A girl called Elena and a boy called Jeremy, and Sam sits alongside him, topping up his bourbon, as he lets them yell at him. He apologises fifty times apiece for making them worry about him.

Elena asks if he has called Damon.

After a moment of hesitation, Alaric says “no.”

Elena tells him he has to, that he owes it to Damon. Alaric says “maybe.”

And a few days later, Sam holds Alaric’s hand while he does it.

“I’m fine, Damon. I’m safe,” he says, and holds the phone away from his ear as Damon levels an uninterrupted three minutes of curses and accusations. Alaric closes his eyes, and Sam kisses him, because it is all he can do.

At last, Alaric puts the phone back to his ear. “Don’t come looking for me, Damon,” he says. “I mean it.”

“Is this about the killing-you thing? Fucking hell, Ric, it’s not like it was the first time.”

“No,” Alaric says. “It was the last time.” And he hangs up, and he and Sam make love until they are too tired to do it any more.

**

Sam reflects later, when it is too late, that Alaric should have been a little less trusting about Damon doing what he was asked, ’specially since he didn’t even agree. Sam is listening to Sookie prattle on about living with two vampires and the hellish trouble it causes, and keeping a vague eye on the whole bar, a less vague eye on Alaric at a booth, laughing with Jason Stackhouse and Hoyt Fortenberry. No question who was winning that battle of wits.

“Sam Merlotte, are you even listenin’ to me?”

“Course I am,” Sam says. “Sounds like you’re having quite a time. ’Scuse me,” is the line he exits on, as he collects two of the large rubbish bins from under the counter, takes them out the back to empty.

No sooner has he done it than there is a rough hand on the collar of his shirt, and he is thrown against the outside wall of his own goddamn bar, for Christ’s sake. Strong arms, too strong, Vampire.

A menacing voice growls in his ear. “Who the fuck are you, and why can I smell Ric all over you?”

“You’d be Damon Salvatore, I reckon,” Sam answers. And he shifts.

He saw a wolf once so big it wasn’t to be believed; covered with the scars of fights he’d clearly won, fur distended over the puckered flesh. Mouth torn wide and gums visible. Only way to get away had been to become a bird, so that’s what he’d done, but he’d catalogued the beast first, and now – with the shreds of his clothes falling like ash around him – this is the form he takes.

Clearly, the right one; Damon’s eyes are ringed in white, as Sam snarls, as he takes careful, menacing steps forward.

Damon’s lip curls in a sneer. “I’ll rip your heart right of your chest, you filthy hybrid,” and the words don’t make sense but even vampires have a fear-scent, so Sam is not worried. He exposes his teeth.

And then Alaric is there; throwing himself through the back door.

“Damon!” he calls. “What the fuck?”

Damon doesn’t drop Sam’s eyes.

Alaric yells again. “Sam. Back off.”

Sam doesn’t back off, not precisely, because Sam wants to taste blood. But he knows this voice and knows to obey it, with some part of his currently tiny frontal lobe.

Alaric steps forward, fixes his hand into Sam’s fur.

Damon splutters, enraged. “You hooked up with a fucking hybrid?”

“Something like that. What the fuck are you doing here, Damon?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Damon narrows his eyes, and Sam remembers most of the reasons he hates vampires. “I’m taking you home.”

Like Alaric is a teenager who ran away because mom and pop wouldn’t let him out past nine of a weekend.

Alaric shakes his head.

Sam can’t think too clearly as a wolf, and Alaric must know this somewhere in the parts of himself that know Sam so well, because he crouches, fixes his hands in the fur on either side of Sam’s face.

“Sam. Go. Get dressed. Come back here when you’re decent.”

Sam growls low in his throat and looks up at Damon.

“He won’t hurt me. He’s a dick, but he loves me.”

And then it’s Damon who growls because Sam’s nose rests in the crook of Alaric’s neck and shoulder.

“Go,” Alaric whispers, and Sam bows his huge head, pads away after one last pause to show Damon his teeth.

Sam dresses faster than should be possible and returns to a conversation conducted in low, muttering tones, Damon almost supplicant, Alaric angry and raw. Then Damon defensive, deflecting, magnesium hot, focussed. Sam hears words like ‘fucking world class education’ and ‘fucking pious rednecks’ and ‘fucking bartender’ as he closes the distance between them.

“Sam. Merlotte. I’d say I was pleased to meetcha, but I am a fuckin’ useless liar.”

Neither Sam nor Damon extend a hand to shake, and Damon curls his lip in a vicious sneer.

Lafayette pokes his head out the back door, and his tone is menacing; “the fuck goin’ on out here?”

Damon takes in his clothes, his earrings, his makeup. “Have some fucking dignity, would you?”

Lafayette balls his hands into fists and steps forward. “You did not just say that, bitch,” he sneers.

“He’s a vampire, Lafayette. Just git on, now,” Sam says, and Damon sneers.

“Who idn’t?” Lafayette says, but he withdraws, eyes haunted; Lafayette’s history with vampires has not been an easy one.

Damon shakes his head, narrows his eyes further, and Sam thinks about vipers. “Tell me, Sam Merlotte, do you have to be dumb as a pail to live here, or does it just make it easier?”

Alaric steps between them.

Damon tenses again, ready to push Alaric aside and tear Sam apart, though he knows he can’t. Sam doesn’t want Alaric standing between them but he knows this is Alaric’s fight, and you don’t take a man’s fight out of his hands, or you’re not treating him like a man. He takes a step back.

“C’mon, Ric. We’re leaving.” Damon starts to step away, with a quick beckoning wave. Alaric stands firm.

“Go away, Damon. We can talk tomorrow. And I mean talk. You come in here with your teeth out and I won’t give you the time of day.”

Damon grits his teeth, paces. Glares at Sam when he can tear his eyes from Alaric. So much anger, in such a neat frame, and if Sam’s honest, he can see, understand; Damon is achingly beautiful, in the way vampires are, all luminous skin and sharp angles, and Damon’s eyes are ice blue and intense.

The air between Damon and Alaric seems to crackle with energy, like the electrical pole by the high school that always makes folks teeth ache, and Sam wonders what would happen if he wasn’t here with them.

Yep. Definitely gotta get this one the fuck out of Louisiana.

Sam speaks, then, and tries not to sound too like an Alpha; but he does. “Bar opens at eleven. _We’ll_ see you here then.”

Damon grunts, runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, for -” But he makes no move to leave. Alaric shakes his head like something’s come loose, looking tired, looking like he did on the side of road so many weeks before, like a man who lost something.

Finally he stands up straight again; fixes Damon with a cold stare, and nods sharply.

“Just go, Damon. See you tomorrow.” And perhaps it’s because Alaric has his arms crossed over his chest just so, or perhaps it’s something else, but Damon knows he’s lost; so he stalks away, back to his car, and raises dust as he fishtails out of the lot.

Sam collects the scraps of cloth that were his clothing, puts them in the bin like it’s punctuation. Alaric collects the sole of a sneaker, too neatly removed from the canvas, and stares at it.

“Sorry,” he says at last. Kicks a can that hits the side of the rubbish bin with a satisfying clatter. “He probably compelled someone at the phone company to trace the call I made. That was…”

Sam shakes his head because he should have thought of this himself, and didn’t; and it could cost him. “Not your fault. Nothin’ to be sorry fer.”

“Sam…”

But Sam shakes his head. “Closing in a couple of hours. Let’s just…”

What, he’s not sure, but they do it, and the bar empties eventually, as it always does.

**

In bed, Sam and Alaric lie apart. “You said he loves you,” Sam said, when he could.

Alaric nods, cautious like a spooked rabbit; “he does. He may suck at it. But he does.”

Sam hoists himself up on one elbow so he can see Alaric’s face, see if he lies. “Do you love him?” and cautious, reluctant, Alaric nods.

“It doesn’t just go away,” he admits, and Sam feels something poisonous shift in his heart.

There are one hundred thousand fantastic reasons not to ask this question and number one on Sam’s list is that the quickest way to kill a relationship is to try and takes its temperature; still, he asks it, and wants an answer. “Do you… do you love me?”

“Come here,” Alaric says, and draws him close, presses their lips together. “I could. This is new. I could,” he repeats, drawing Sam’s tongue into his mouth. “It could be so easy, here with you.”

Sam drapes himself over Alaric’s chest. Meets his eyes, looming.

“Are you going to go with him?”

And the smile that cracks Alaric’s face open is genuine, and Sam breathes out, didn’t know he had so much spent air in him. “No,” Alaric says. “I don’t know about next month or next year. I’m being honest, here. But I won’t be going with him tomorrow. So don’t worry about it.”

So Sam puts it out of his mind, and he spreads Alaric wide with his fingers and tongue and all the lube on God’s green earth. Deep in Alaric, Sam rolls his hips, kissing Alaric whenever their faces get near enough to touch, and hopefully, he thinks, as Alaric shudders to climax between their bodies, he puts it out of Alaric’s mind, too.

**

When Damon stalks into Merlotte’s the next morning at eleven a.m. precisely, his sneer is even more pronounced.

Sam nods. “Get you a True Blood?”

Damon shudders. “Not if I’m dying of thirst. I’ve eaten. I’ll take a bourbon, though. And then you can fuck off and let Alaric and I talk in peace.”

 _Likely_ , Sam thinks, but he puts a bottle of bourbon and two glasses on a table. Alaric is in the office, counting change.

“He’s here.”

Alaric tenses and nods, and shakes his head and tenses further. “Better go talk to him.”

“Ric…” Sam thumbs at the spot between his eyebrows. “Do what’s right for you. Leave me out of it. Hell, leave… _him_ out of it.” Can’t bring himself to say Damon’s name, just sees that weird spark between Damon and Alaric that he saw out the back the night before, under the stars, with torn rags under his feet.

Alaric nods, and closes the door behind him.

Sam, as dog, follows moments later, after fixing Lafayette and Arlene with a glare they understand well enough. When he arrives at the table he tucks himself alongside Alaric’s bench, and hears the words “- fuck’s sake, it was a good long nap. You’re acting like I actually killed you.”

Almost frantic, Alaric tangles his hair into the fur on Sam’s neck. Perhaps he can sense the coyote that Sam would be if he snapped.

“You did. You killed me.”

But Damon isn’t listening. He’s staring at Sam. “That’s just… unsanitary. Shouldn’t your _boyfriend_ come chase him out?”

“This is my dog. He’s fine in here.”

“You got a dog? What’s his name?” Like this is the part of the conversation that doesn’t make a lick of sense.

“Dog.”

Damon throws his arms in the air, growling worse than Sam on a good day. “Jesus Christ, Ric. Did you wake up brain damaged?”

“I have no idea. Maybe. Something you could have thought about before you killed me again.”

And there’s a lot of muffled arguing, and Sam hears words like ‘abandonment’ and ‘duty’ and ‘council’ and some names he recognises, and some he doesn’t. And Alaric keeps his hand firmly attached to Sam’s fur, and he doesn’t argue back.

“Are you done?” he says, when given the chance to.

“No,” Damon answers, and begins the same tirade again. Lafayette drops a basket of fries and a plate of onion rings on the table and fixes Damon with a glare. Damon pauses just long enough to say “nice lipstick” and he launches back into it.

“Are you done _now_?”

Alaric applies enough Tabasco sauce to the fries so that even Sam is impressed, and eats them two at a time.

“Am I getting through to you at all? Look,” and Damon changes tack. “Let’s just go home. Talk more. We can work this out. This isn’t – this can’t be – over,” he splutters.

“Maybe,” Alaric says, but he scratching Sam on the head to keep him calm. “I know we’re done for now. I’m not going back to Mystic. I’m staying here.”

“For how much longer?”

“Maybe a month, maybe a year. Maybe five months. Maybe forever.” Alaric shrugs. “I just don’t know.” He reaches across the table to grasp Damon’s hand. “I do know… you need to leave.”

Damon grips Alaric’s hand so hard, so hard. Alaric doesn’t flinch. Damon growls, low. “I love you, Ric. You know I do.”

“I do,” Alaric agrees. “I also know you’re violent.”

“Whereas you sit down with a cup of tea and talk about your fucking feelings?” Damon’s voice drops a little. Not flirtatious precisely but seductive, maybe; worming his way back. “I’ve seen you kill plenty, Ric. Don’t forget it. Best foreplay ever. Remember the -”

Alaric shakes his head. “Bad guys, Damon. I’m talking about you and me. You seems to think having had a bad day is good enough reason to lose your shit and break my neck.” Alaric sits back in his seat, hardens his expression.

“I’m a fucking vampire! We’re – impulsive.”

“And I’m a human. We’re mortal.” Alaric pulls his hand away from Damon’s and Sam relaxes at last, settling on Alaric’s feet. “The ring’s been fucking up, and you knew that. And you killed me anyway. So I need you to leave.”

Damon flexes and tenses and resettles, cataloguing his options. Apparently finding none. He pushes back from the table, and Sam looks up in time to see him cross his arms.

“So this is it. It’s over.”

Alaric says nothing.

Damon leans forward in his seat again. “Will you call me?”

“Not soon. And not often. But I’ll call.”

There’s a long silence, longer than a hot bayou night when the mosquitoes won’t quit, and then Damon concedes defeat.

And when Sam is Sam again, he joins them once more; standing out the front of the bar, this time, and Damon swallows all of his considerable pride to shake Sam’s hand.

“Anything happens to him,” he promises and threatens, “And I’ll rip your heart out of your chest and eat it. Fried up in garlic butter.”

Damon crosses the front of the lot to where his car is, frightening off a bunch of kids who have never seen anything so expensive in their lives. He stands and turns and the expression is painful to see; loathing, love and loss. With a sharp nod he climbs into the front seat, pulls away with a screech.

Alaric relaxes, a little, then. Crosses his arms over his chest, determined set to his jaw. Gives Sam a strained smile.

“That’s that, I guess,” he says. There’s a long moment of silence which needs busting up so Sam cocks his head, catches Alaric’s eye.

“So, Ric… the fuck is a hybrid?”

Alaric laughs. “Werepire?”

“And again, I say, the fuck?”

Alaric bumps Sam’s shoulder with his own, pointing them back to the bar where they belong. “Can’t tell you all my best stories in one go. I’ll explain over a bunch of drinks sometime. Epic story, thousand or so years in the making.” His smile falters. “Too many major character deaths.”

And maybe it shouldn’t be, but this is the first inkling Sam has that Mystic Falls might be even more fucked up than Bon Temps.

“We got a lot to talk about,” Sam says, soft, and they step inside.

The bar is filling up so they don’t talk, not then. But they’ll talk, Sam knows; and they’ll swim, and they’ll fuck, and every day he’ll give Alaric a new reason to stay, until it’s just habit, and he just stays.

 


End file.
